


A Very Stark Christmas

by sunkelles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: All those fluffy things you expect in a Christmas fic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Caroling, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Movies, F/F, Femslash, Ice Skating, Jon is Ned and Cat's son together because I'm lazy, Margaery can't sing, Modern Westeros AU, This thing is so damn long, and, at least by my standards it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-02 17:43:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2820737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/sunkelles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa brings her girlfriend home for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December 23

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that you guys enjoy this. It's the fluffiest thing that I've written since that 6k fic this February that was basically an extended Disney World date for a favorite couple of mine. 
> 
> I hope that the writing isn't too bad, but as I've said. I haven't had all that much practice writing fluff.

The fields of half-dead crops all seem to blur together as they speed down the highway. Margaery doesn’t even try to change the station to something less atrociously Christmas-centric, because this is Sansa’s favorite time of year. Margaery won’t try to steal away her Christmas joy.

“My family is going to love you,” Sansa assures her, somehow knowing that Margaery needs reassurance before she even asks for it. Sansa’s a fairly intuitive girlfriend, which is something Margaery, who isn’t adept at sharing her feelings, desperately needs. She’s fairly good at manipulating others around her to her will, but sharing her feelings is something that has been foreign to her nearly all her life.

“They know that I’m coming, right?” Margaery asks for what may be the thirtieth time. She’s heard the story, of how Sansa reminded her mother that she’d said that she could always have a boyfriend over for Christmas, and Sansa had asked if that applied to girlfriends. And then the tearful reunion and the “of courses” that had come from all sides, but Margaery needs to hear it again. She still remembers the time that Arianne Martell used her for shock-value, and though she knows that Sansa wouldn’t do that, it never hurts her to be reminded.

“Yes, Marg,” she says with a tone of feigned exasperation, “they know that you’re coming. Now, your only job is to charm their pants off.”

“I know I can do that,” Margaery says with her omnipresent flirtatious tone, “it worked with you, didn’t it?” Sansa turns bright red, the way that she always does when Marg is suggestive, but it’s only half from embarrassment.

“No flirting while I’m driving!” Sansa shouts, and she has to break their cruise control abruptly to avoid colliding into the car in front of them.

“Alright, alright,” Margaery coincides, “I won’t flirt while you’re driving.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says, regaining a portion of her calm as she resumes her cruise and gets back up to highway speed.

“I make no promises about later, though,” she asserts with a grin on her face. Sansa sighs in resignation because she’s used to it. She and Margaery have been dating nearly a year now and she knows the way that she is. Margaery loves her for it.

Sansa seems to have tuned her out for a moment, and is now singing along to the radio with her sweet, flute-like soprano voice.

“Silver bells,” she sings, “it’s Christmastime in the city.”

“Ring-a-ling,” Margaery joins in, knowing full-well that she is a terrible singer, “hear them ring. Soon it will be Christmas day.” By this point, Sansa is laughing (at her, which she’s frankly insulted by).

“Sansa,” she groans, but Sansa just keeps laughing.

“Every damn time,” Marg mutters, but Sansa just keeps gigging guiltily. Marg laughs too, as Winter Wonderland starts to play in the background.

“I think that I’m excited,” Margaery admits, “I’m scarred, but I’m excited.”

“That’s how I felt when I met your family,” Sansa says with a tone that is less comforting and more sadistic, as if Margaery’s just rewards for subjecting her to the entire Tyrell/Hightower clan at one time are on their way. Margaery shutters, but then Sansa laughs.

“They’re going to love you,” Sansa promises, her tone lightening enough that Margaery realizes her earlier tone was, in fact, _joking_ , “Mom and Dad and all my siblings. They will love you.”

Margaery sighs a half-relieved sigh. She hopes that Sansa means it and isn’t just trying to make her feel less nervous.

* * *

 

 

 

They roll into the Starks’ driveway at eight o’clock, and the darkness has long since fallen over their Montana home. The snow twinkles under the lights and Margaery starts to realize just how cold this Holiday break will be.

“We’re here,” Sansa says with a tone so full of excitement and happiness that Margaery can’t even find it in herself to be angry about the cold. Margaery puts on her big coat and follows Sansa as she exits her small car.

The cold hits her like a freight train, but she can’t run because she’s afraid that the driveway might have icy patches. Sansa laughs as the snow falls gently around them, and she takes Marg’s hand in hers as she tries to catch a snowflake on her tongue. Sansa looks so absurdly happy that Margaery decides that this might just be her greatest Christmas ever, even if Sansa’s family abhors her.

Sansa knocks on the oaken door and Margaery’s stomach suddenly fills with butterflies. Though she knows that Sansa most likely will not dump her if her family ends up hating her, Margaery would prefer if her family does _not_ hate her. Margaery would like the Starks to like her.

The door swings open, and a girl with choppy black hair answers the door.

“You’re late,” she says, her lips quirking into a smile.

“Sorry,” Sansa says, with a hint of sarcasm, “Traffic was hectic.” Traffic was not in fact hectic, which was surprising. Margaery suspected that at least one stretch of highway from Mississippi to Montana would have heavy traffic on the night before Christmas Eve, but she suspected wrong. The roads were almost eerily empty. Arya cracks a large smile at that, and Sansa leans in for a hug that Arya quickly reciprocates. Margaery’s shivers start to become violent as the two break their hug.

“This is a lovely reunion,” Margaery says, her teeth chattering all the way, “but I’m from the Deep South. It’s cold out here.” Arya laughs as she breaks their hug and opens the door for them.

“I guess you won’t be helping me with the luggage?” Sansa asks with laughter as they enter the house.

Sansa’s parents’ house smells of pine needles and cookies and Margaery already feels at home as she steps into the entry way. She’s sure she’ll feel even better when she (finally) warms up. Margaery hears someone bounding down the stairs.

“Mom, dad!” the young, auburn-haired boy shouts, “Sansa and her girlfriend are here!”  Sansa, of course, blushes in response. Margaery, though, is used to this sort of thing, after having Loras tell her parents about almost every girlfriend that she’s ever had before she had a chance to tell them herself. Sansa, regaining her composure, grabs her younger brother and pulls him into a hug.

“I’ve missed you, Rickon,” she says.

“Sansa,” he says in exasperation, trying to escape Sansa’s “bear-hug” grasp, “The KND Christmas special is on!! I don’t want to miss it.” Sansa visibly rolls her eyes, but releases her brother, allowing him to run into the living room and (hopefully) get to the television quickly enough not to miss any of his show. Margaery hears even more footsteps as Sansa’s parents start to descend the steps. Catelyn Stark looks like Margaery suspects Sansa will one day look with her gorgeous face, long auburn hair, and a wise, loving smile on her face as she spots her daughter.

“Sansa,” her mother says, and Sansa smiles widely. She embraces her daughter tightly, and Sansa clutches onto her like a barnacle.

Her father follows quietly behind. Ned Stark seems to be a man of few words, just as Sansa has said. He wraps his arms around the both of them. They eventually break the hug, and Catelyn looks over to Margaery.

“You must be Margaery,” Catelyn Stark says, and then she glares lightly at her daughter, “We actually haven’t heard much about you.”

“Alright,” Sansa says, “I think that we’ve made my girlfriend feel sufficiently awkward. I’m going to go bring our luggage in.” Sansa’s parents laugh as she shuffles out of the house towards her car.

“We have heard a bit about you,” Ned tells her.

Margaery “charming” Tyrell is surprisingly stumped about what to say.

“Good things, I hope,” she settles on, which a charming, disarming smile.

“Mainly,” he says, which a twinkle of humor in his eyes. Margaery decides that she might like Sansa’s father. Sansa stumbles through the door with her arms stuffed with bags and suitcases, and Marg almost feels guilty about making Sansa carry it from outside all alone.

“You’re helping me get it upstairs,” Sansa declares, and Marg feels significantly less guilty as she picks up a suitcase and a bag to head up the stairs.

* * *

 

 

Sansa’s old room has sickeningly pink walls that her girlfriend assures her she had painted when she was six and never got around to repainting, and they drop their bags on the ground near the queen sized bed. The comforter is a brighter shade of pink (which is far less sickening). 

"Come on," Sansa says, "I want to show you something." 

* * *

 

 

The entire room next to Sansa's completely coated in Stark family photos, and in each one every family member is in a Christmas sweater with their first initial on it.

“We take a family photo every year,” Sansa explains.

“Who knits all the sweaters?” Margaery asks, because she can’t imagine how much time it must take to knit scarves for all six Stark kids, their parents, and their two uncles and aunt. She wonders if whoever does it just knits and knits for the entire year.

“My dad,” Sansa says with a fond look on her face.

“It seems like my entire life is documented in this room,” she says with a nostalgic look on her face.

“My mom calls it our giant scrapbook,” and it has such fondness in her tone that Margaery almost feels like she knows her parents, though they haven’t even really spoken.

“We should go back down,” Margaery mentions, because eventually she will have to start making a good impression on these people. She might as well start now. Sansa smiles, and they exit the bright, happy room, as full of nostalgia as any room could be.

 

* * *

 

 

Then, they make their way back down the stairs. One might think that Margaery would never have developed such an aversion for stairs, considering all the time that she spent at her grandmother’s mansion, but that might actually be the reason why she did.

* * *

 

 

 

They gather in the living room, Sansa telling stories from college as her younger siblings try to tell her all about how their lives are going. Arya is ready to finally leave the house. Bran has been preparing for a big piano competition and he’s sure that he’s going to do well, and Rickon doesn’t ever want to go back to school. Inevitably, the conversation eventually switches to Margaery herself.

“I’m studying political science,” she says.

“I want to get into campaign management after college,” she admits, and Sansa smiles at her.

“We actually met in my government class,” She tells them, “Marg was my TA.”

“That sounds like a bad romantic comedy,” Arya laughs and Margaery smiles.

“I assure you,” she says, “we’re living a _good_ romantic comedy.” And then there are peals of laughter as the talk degenerates into increasingly unrelated topics as it gets later and later. Sansa is the first to declare that she is tired and ready to go to bed, and of course Margaery can’t let her go to bed alone, so they start making for her bedroom.

“Rickon,” Catelyn says, “it’s time to go to bed.”

“Mother!” he says, “I’m twelve! Twelve year olds don’t have bedtimes.”

“They do if they don’t want to be in trouble for falling asleep at mass tomorrow,” she says, and Sansa and Margaery giggle together as they finally walk out of reach of their conversation.

* * *

 

 

They curl up together in bed, and Sansa tells her about all the things she plans to have them do over break. They’re grand and large, and Margaery can’t help but get swept up in them as they fall asleep.


	2. December 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve is upon them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Margaery who still can't sing, Catholic mass, and small Tully children. 
> 
> You might need to brush your teeth after consuming all this cotton candy fluff. You might get cavities.
> 
> I don't own Take Me To Church by Hozier.

Morning comes both too quickly and not quickly enough.

“I don’t want to get up,” Margaery tells her, moving her head from her pillow to Sansa’s stomach.

“Marg,” Sansa groans, trying to pry herself out of her girlfriend’s grasp, “I am getting up.”

“It’s only eight,” the other woman says, “just lie with me. I _need_ your warmth.” Sansa rolls her eyes, but sends her a half-fond smile.

“I’m going to have breakfast and watch cartoons with Rickon and help my mom make cookies,” she says, kissing her girlfriend on the forehead.

“If you want to lie in bed all day, you can go back to sleep,” she says, a hint of humor in her tone. Sansa opens the door, letting in so much light someone might wonder if it heralded the Second Coming of Christ, and then she closed the door behind her. On principle, Margaery makes herself a blanket burrito in the middle of the bed and wills herself back to sleep.

* * *

 

 

Sansa grabs a bowl and a spoon before she sits down at the kitchen table. She can hear Rickon’s show in the background, the Christmas special of a cartoon she’s unfamiliar with, as her mother starts the coffee pot. She hears the clomping of footsteps that can only be coming from Arya stumbling down the steps half asleep, and a few moments later her sister plops down beside her at the kitchen table. Sansa laughs and Arya just glares at her.

“I need coffee,” she says. Arya has never been a morning person, and Sansa has grown to enjoy her sister’s “it’s too early for this shit” tone.

“Can I have some coffee?” Rickon asks. Even at twelve years old, he’s still the same hyper, enthusiastic kid that he’s always been.

A look of shear, undiluted terror passes over her mother’s face as she says the word no. Sansa laughs, and Arya somehow musters up the energy to laugh too. Their mother and brother just glare for distinctly different reasons.

* * *

 

 

Sansa can already hear Bran playing. He plays the piano the way that other kids watch tv, constantly and habitually. Sometimes Sansa wishes that she had a gift like his.

Bran’s fingers dance across the keys, the sound of the tune closely resembling the soft fall of snow.

* * *

 

 

She and her mother make cookies, and Arya and Rickon only show up at the end (just in time to each some cookie dough before they put them in the oven).

* * *

 

 

Robb, surprisingly, arrives before Margaery wakes up. Sansa supposes her brother can come and go pretty much as he pleases since he still lives in Winterfell and has an actual, adult job. She sort of envies him this, no matter how much she loves Oxford.

“I would have been very angry with you if you managed to arrive later than Jon,” their mother tells him.

“You see me every week,”  Robb says in exasperation.

“But I don’t,” Sansa says, and then Robb looks to her in realization. He actually manages to look a bit contrite in response. 

“It’s alright,” she says, “but you know, I do actually like to see you sometimes.”

 

Margaery finally joins them at ten thirty in the morning, though, predictably she has already showered, put on her makeup and looks like the goddess that she always does.

Sansa, to her embarrassment,  hasn’t even brushed her teeth.

* * *

 

 

Jon arrives in the early afternoon, and Margaery meets him as soon as he finishes all his reunions.

Jon is intimidating. There’s really no other way to put it. When Sansa mentioned that her oldest brother had been in the army for a couple of years, Margaery didn’t really know what she expected. Tall, muscular and with an omnipresent frown wasn’t it. Robb, luckily, is less intimidating, but not by much. He’s normal older brother intimidating, where Jon is downright scary. Margaery suddenly understands why Joffrey Baratheon never went after the Starks after Sansa broke up with him.

His laughter echoes through the halls the same way that any of her other siblings’ does, so that’s at least a bit comforting, but she’s honestly a bit terrified that if Sansa’s siblings think that she’s been mistreating her she might end up by the side of the road. And in the country near a small town in Montana, Margaery doubts anyone will find her for at least a couple of days.

* * *

 

 

Sansa knows that they’re going to the five o’clock mass because that’s what they’ve always done.

The Tullys are descended from Irish Catholic immigrants, and religion is important to her mother. But aside from Sansa’s short affair with piety in middle school, when she insisted that they attend the midnight mass, they have always gone to the five o’clock mass. Sansa does sort of miss the candles and the atmosphere of the midnight mass, though she never misses the extra sleep that she ends up getting because they don’t attend that mass anymore.

* * *

 

 

“We’re going to the five o’clock mass,” Sansa says, and realization flashes in Margaery’s eyes.

“So you’re taking me to church?” she asks, and Sansa groans.

“Margaery,” she says in exasperation, but it doesn’t stop her girlfriend.

“Take me to church,

I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies,” she sings, and even with her off-key, cracking tone, the song sounds seductive,

“I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife

Offer me my deathless death

Good God, let me give you my life,” she sings, and at this point, Sansa can’t help but join in. It’s their song, even if they’re in one of the guest rooms at her parent’s house.

“No Masters or Kings,” they begin, Sansa’s voice adding a sort of actual musical quality that actually makes Marg’s sound bearable.

“When the Ritual begins,” her girlfriend smirks at her.

“There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin,” they sing, and Marg kisses her softly on the lips. Sansa hears a shout from downstairs, and she remembers that she is in fact in her parents’ house, and that they have to be ready to leave for church: actual, _Catholic_ church, not metaphorical, sexy church.

“Marg,” she says, disappointment thick in her tone, “we can’t. We have to go to mass.” Her girlfriend sighs, but she turns away from her.

“Fine,” she sighs, “I suppose I don’t want your family to think that I’ve corrupted you. If you show up to Christmas eve mass and dinner with sex hair, they might get that impression.” Sansa blushes as Marg loses her composure and laughs.

“Come on,” she says, a genuine smile on her face, “let’s go downstairs. We wouldn’t want to keep your family waiting.”

* * *

 

Catholic mass is a more confusing experience for Margaery than most of her high level college classes have been.

 

“Sansa,” she whispers, “Sansa, what is going on? People are on their knees?”

 

“ _Why are they chanting,”_ she thinks, “what is going on?” Her confusion stays at much the same level until what seems like it _must_ be the end of the service.

 

“Sansa, what are they eating?” Margaery asks, but Sansa just shushes her. And when Margaery tries to stand up, Sansa gestures frantically for her to sit back down.

 

Margaery walks out of the church with a sense of utter confusion. Sansa strides out of the church with a laugh on her lips and her plaid, grey pea coat buttoned up all the way.

* * *

 

 

The Tully family gathering is a mass of auburn-haired people, Margaery, and a few dark-haired Starks. Margaery, yet again, feels out of place. But she soon forgets about this feeling as she smells the large assortment of foods that have been set out on the dining room table.

* * *

 

 

As they talk around the dining room, Margaery learns a lot more about the Tully side of the family. Sansa’s Aunt Lysa, apparently, was going through a terribly rough mental patch a year or so prior, but has been seeing a therapist and has been making large improvements. Her Uncle Edmure and Aunt Roslin have two predictably auburn-haired children: a five-year old girl named Kelsie and a three-year old boy named Patrick.

Sansa’s (Great) Uncle Brynden has auburn hair that has just started to speckle with grey, and a smile that could light up a room. He’s a treasure of trove of crude humor and tales from his youth, and provides a sharp contrast to his more reserved brother.

* * *

 

 

 

Patrick grabs Robb’s hand and demands a shoulder ride as Kelsie tries to convince Jon why he needs to help her do flips. Margaery laughs. She and Megga and Alla were the youngest of the Tyrell brood (and her mother was an only child) so she’s never been around children who were younger than her. She thinks that she likes it, though she also tries to smother the thought of having little curly, auburn-haired girls running around she and Sansa’s apartment a few years down the line.

Robb runs around the living room with his screaming cousin on his shoulders and drops her off on the couch, much to her chagrin.

“Okay,” Catelyn says loudly, trying to break the chaos that has erupted in the Tully ancestral living room, “Let’s open presents!” This, of course, only causes more chaos to ensue. Kelsie and Patrick both let out screams of joy at the same time, while Edmure laughs and Roslin groans and digs her face into his shoulder.

“We can’t open presents if no one passes them out,” Ned says, with a quirk of his lips, and Kelsie rushes to pass them all out as Patrick grumbles about not being able to read. It’s then that Margaery realizes Sansa’s mother and father are obviously the only ones in the room who actually know how to handle children.

They go in order of age, which seems to suit everyone but Kelsie, who wanted to go first. It doesn’t seem to fit Hoster, either, who doesn’t like being reminded he is the oldest, but he isn’t as vocal about his discontentment. 

They huddle around the Christmas tree like kids, and Kelsie forces herself into Sansa’s lap before they start opening their presents. 

* * *

 

 

Kelsie's face lights up like the sky on the 4th of July as she opens up a present with costumes for both the sisters from Frozen. Kelsie tells Patrick that he has to be Anna because he’s younger, but he says that he can be Elsa if he wants.

And that somehow leads to the story of how Jon met Ygritte.

“I stumbled into that bar that night, covered in snow from head to foot,” he says with a nostalgic grin on his face.

“And she just sort of grins at me and says drinks are on the house,” he says.

“So you looked like Kristoff?” Kelsie giggles, and Jon nods.

“Ygritte says that Disney owes us royalties for stealing that scene,” he says. Robb just sort of looks at him.

“You two are so weird,” he says, and then he starts laughing again at the image of Jon meeting his girlfriend coated in snow.

“That’s why she calls you Jon Snow,” Arya says in realization, and then even Sansa and Bran crack up.

“But why do you know nothing?” Rickon asks. Judging by how red Jon turns (a shade normally reserved for his auburn-haired siblings) Sansa assumes that the story is not for children, or their parents, or anyone really.

“Okay new topic!” Robb says, and Rickon and the Tully kids look to him in total confusion as he starts going on about Theon’s newest failed relationship and the price of tea in China.

* * *

 

 

Robb leaves for his actual adult house in Winterfell where he does actual adult things like taxes and Sansa can’t help but feel a little bit self-conscious about how old they’ve all gotten. Jon and Robb are both adults in the literal sense. Jon spent two years in the army and has now almost finished his degree in graphic design, and Robb has moved back to Winterfell after finishing his degree in business and has started working at their father’s business. Sansa herself is twenty one, old enough to vote and drink and is almost an _actual_ adult, and is in a serious relationship. Arya is eighteen and almost out of high school, and Bran’s seventeen and soon to follow. The only one of them that could still be considered a child is twelve year old Rickon, but even _he’s_ growing up. Sansa hadn’t even realized how much time had slipped through the hourglass until she took a moment to think about it.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa grabs her copy of _The Night Before Christmas_ and curls up into bed with it. Margaery curls up beside her.

“Alright,” Marg says a large smile, “read me the kids’ book.” Sansa reads her the kids' book with all of her Christmas-centric enthusiasm, even putting on a deep Santa voice at all the appropriate times. Sansa sighs, and though Margaery isn't all that great at sharing her own feelings, she can sense when other people are having problems with theirs. 

"Sansa," she says gently, "what's wrong?" 

“I know it’s silly,” Sansa says, because it probably is, “but I miss being a kid. I don’t think that I’m ready for this whole “adult” thing.” She misses pretending that she’s a reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh with her siblings. She misses staying up late to try to see Santa Claus and being able to feel the Christmas spirit in the air. 

Margaery laughs.

“Darling,” she says, “I miss childhood, too. I hardly see my cousins anymore. I miss swimming at grandmother’s for every single birthday. I miss it when Willas used to read me stories. But I wouldn’t go back.”

“Really?” Sansa asks her.

“Of course not,” Margaery tells her, and she pauses. Sansa’s not sure if it’s for dramatic effect or because she’s trying to find the right word.

Then she finishes, “because then I couldn’t have you.”

Sansa lies her head on Margaery’s stomach as the other girl turns off the light. They lie in silence for a few minutes, and Sansa is suddenly struck by a hit of courage. 

“I love you,” she says, and she supposes that it doesn’t matter whether or not her girlfriend hears her in the darkness. The truth doesn’t need to be observed to make it true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I had a LOT of fun making those little Tully kids. And OF COURSE they both want to be Elsa. Everyone wants to be Elsa (except, occasionally, Elsa). 
> 
> Also, I totally envision Arya and Bran as partners in crime. Don't ask me how this head-canon happened, but it did and now it's here to stay.


	3. December 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHRISTMAS!!!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know. 
> 
> I'm kind of lazy but it's still fluffy.

Sansa wakes up early Christmas morning. Force of habit, she supposes. One year, after Arya woke the whole house up at three o'clock in the morning to open gifts from Santa, their parents made it a house rule that they couldn't open presents before nine. Sansa sighs nostalgically, but decides that it won’t hurt her to have an extra hour or two of sleep. She curls back into Margaery’s warmth and waits for a later time in the morning to arrive.

* * *

 

 

Margaery wakes up at 8:55 and tries to make herself presentable, but Sansa grabs her hand and tells her that her family won’t judge her. Margaery sighs in resignation and follows Sansa down the steps with her pajamas and bedhead that resembles a woman hit by lightning.

 

Rickon passes out the presents, which is apparently the duty of the youngest Stark child. Sansa doesn’t ever remember doing that until Rickon was four and Bran and Arya mentioned it, but Sansa isn’t about to reveal their lazy, deceitful ways.

“Santa came!” Rickon says exaggeratedly, because Bran and Arya told her that they might have given the idea that their parents would stop buying him extra presents when he stopped believing in Santa, and Sansa laughs loudly. Her parents send each other confused looks, and Sansa laughs even more when she thinks of all the explaining that they will have to do.  Then, Rickon drops a box into Marg’s lap.

Margaery’s face lights up like the star at the top of the tree  and she grasps the box tightly.

“They got me a present,” she says softly. Sansa smiles softly at her.

 

They open presents quickly, and Margaery holds her present, a scratchy green sweater with her first initial knitted on the front, like it’s made of the most precious gold.

* * *

 

 

“We normally play a game of monopoly after breakfast,” Sansa says, after most of her family has moved to the kitchen for breakfast,“and it almost always ends in blood.”

Margaery laughs, and Sansa sends her a grave look.

“Monopoly is no joke,” she says, “you win or you die.” Margaery laughs, again.

“I suppose I’ll just have to win, then,” she says blithely.

And then, with a more distinctly seductive look, she finishes, “that will prove that I’m worthy of your hand.” Sansa blushes as she laughs heartily.

“Come on,” Sansa says after she gets control of herself, “we wouldn’t want to keep them waiting. They might start without us.”

* * *

 

 

Margaery, apparently, is as lucky and shrewd with money as she is with politics. She buys up the board before any of them have time to blink, and has hotels up as quickly as it takes for the family to start an alliance against her. And pretty soon Sansa is muttering about Sugar Barons and the unfairness of the game and Margaery is smirking. Then, Margaery gently touches the ringfinger on Sansa’s left hand.

“I think that a sapphire ring would look nice,” She says with a grin, “it would match your eyes.”

“God, Marg,” she says with a laugh, and her family members exchange confused looks as Sansa tries to explain it to them.

* * *

 

 

Sansa’s mother is a fabulous cook. Margaery doesn’t know what half of the stuff she shovels on her plate is, but it doesn’t matter much. It tastes the way that she thinks ambrosia should taste.

And then there are plates of cookies, pumpkin pie, and chocolate candies. She thinks that she might never want to spend another Christmas at Highgarden, despite the terrible cold. Her grandmother and brother would probably band together to plot her political demise if she ever were to completely stop coming home for Christmas, though, so she’d best not do that.

* * *

 

 

“We have to watch Christmas movies,” Sansa says.

“Sansa,” her sister groans.

“We always watch Christmas movies,” Sansa asserts. Rickon agrees, because he loves cheesy Christmas flicks the way all young children do. Arya and Bran give a long, collective teenaged groan. Robb shrugs and Jon laughs.

“Do we have to dad?” Bran asks, in a last ditch attempt to escape his fate.

“It’s a tradition,” Ned says. He doesn’t sound overly enthusiastic about it, but her father normally acquiesces to his wife and daughters’ ridiculous demands (much more often than to any of his sons, at least).

“Mother?” Arya tries and Catelyn just laughs.

“I like those movies as well as your sister does,” she says with a hint of devious humor in her tone, and Arya groans (again). She seems to have gotten rather good at that. She might be even better at that than she is at softball.

“Miracle on 34th Street, Elf, or Home Alone?” Sansa asks, holding up the DVDs and ancient cassette tape for everyone to see. Rickon wants to see Elf, and since he’s the only one who actually voted, Sansa slides it in the dvd player quickly. 

They all end up laughing, even as Arya interjects about how damn weird the romance is and Bran talks about plot-holes, but Marg can tell that they all end up enjoying it.


	4. December 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stark kids go Christmas caroling. 
> 
> And then Ned's crazy siblings come for a visit.

The morning is lazy and uneventful in the best way, and it brings Sansa back to a time when they had these mornings all the time. Bran’s playing music in the background while Rickon’s trying to watch cartoons, and Arya is talking about how excited she is for softball season and wishing that all the damn snow would just _melt._ But Marg is telling her all about her plans for them next semester, too, and Sansa feels _wonderful._

* * *

 

 

They never do much on the day after Christmas. Sometimes their aunt and uncles come, sometimes they come later, and sometimes they don’t come at all. The only consistency that they’ve ever had for Decemeber 26th is that they always go Christmas caroling, and Sansa is unwilling to ever let that tradition die.

* * *

 

 

Jon and Robb roll up in their truck that evening after having spent some time with friends, and Sansa and her siblings bundle up warmly.

“Are you sure that you don’t want to come?” she asks her girlfriend.

“I think that I’ll stay,” Marg tells her, “I need to finish that book that you lent me anyway.” Sansa knows what she’s doing, trying to give Sansa time with her siblings, and she appreciates that. Mainly, she just appreciates everything about her girlfriend.

* * *

 

 

They all pile in the back of Jon’s truck, except for Robb, who has called perpetual shotgun (much to Arya’s annoyance) and Sana suddenly realizes how much easier this was when they were all kids. Except for Rickon, they’re all full-grown now, and three adults and an average sized eleven year old in the back of a Ford F150 become much more crowded than one might expect. But Sansa doesn’t mind that much as they start bickering about which house to start with and which songs to sing, and whether or not snowballs should be permitted. She feels like a kid again, fighting with Arya and dreaming of that time when she’d meet her dream guy, but she supposes that she’s fulfilled her dreams. Her dream guy turned out to a dream girl, and she and Arya’s words are far less harsh than they once were, more playful than bitter, and she feels as close to her siblings as she ever did.

They drop by the Reeds’ house first, which was Bran’s only request. They sing _Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,_ and _We Wish You a Merry Christmas,_ and they only sound like a choir of dying cats once, or maybe five times but who’s really counting? Meera thanks them for coming. Jojen doesn’t say anything, but he smiles, which Sansa supposes is a huge compliment, coming from him. Jojen Reed is a serious boy, and Sansa has occasionally wondered if he has any emotions that don’t concern his family or Bran.

 

“We should do fewer religious numbers,” Arya says.

“No one wants to hear another rendition of _Silent Night_ or _Joy to the World,”_ she asserts.

“Those are _classics,_ Arya,” Sansa says, mild horror and distaste seeping into her tone, and she hears their brothers groan. Sansa finds herself laughing. She and Arya have always bickered (and probably always will) but she loves her sister, and she’s glad that in the past few years it has grown to be more playful and less toxic and bitter. They laugh as they drive around town, singing badly (or wonderfully, if you ask Rickon) for every Winterfell resident who will open their doors for them, and then they finally drive back home.

* * *

 

 

They stagger in, cheeks pink from the cold, at nine o’clock that night, and their aunt and uncle have already arrived.

“You’re late,” their mother tells them, but there isn’t much bile in her tone. Catelyn craves politeness and propriety, but she wants her children to get along and be happy even more. Sansa can tell that she isn’t really mad. Her uncles and aunt obviously aren’t, as they sit around the kitchen, listening to Benjen and Lyanna and Brandon swap equally ribald tales as her father continues to be the only slightly normal one out of the entire bunch. Margaery seems to be successfully charming the pants off of everyone, and Sansa smiles at that. She wants her family and her girlfriend to get along.

 

Aunt Lyanna tells them all about her newest acting gig and assures then that this will finally be what helps her hit the big time. Uncle Brandon laments his latest fallout with his half-time partner, half-time nemesis Ashara Dayne. Uncle Benjen tells the wild tale of his latest adventure down in the Amazon rain Forrest.

Robb excuses himself at 10:30, despite their mother’s insistence that he shouldn’t drive after he’s had a beer or two. Jon decides to leave with him, because there isn’t actually enough room for everyone at the Stark residence when their father’s siblings visit.

* * *

 

  
Margaery plops down beside her on the bed.

“I thought my family was crazy,” Marg mutters to her, and Sansa’s laugh is deep and sincere.

“We can’t let you Tyrells have all the fun,” she says with a teasing lilt to her voice.

“I can’t wait for you to see our New Year’s Eve party,” Marg tells her.

“Highgarden will be all done up in lights,” she says, “the music will be playing, and the fountains will be all lit up, and everyone will be in the prettiest dresses.”

“You really are ridiculously wealthy,” Sansa says, lying down on Margaery’s lap. And yeah, okay. Sansa’s dead on there. The Tyrells have been a wealthy family since the beginning of history, and they’ve been a wealthy Southern family since they fled France during the Revolution and bought up all the land and slaves that they could. But they’ve gotten better, moved their fortune from sugar farming and slave labor into investing in industry and working in politics. They do try to do good things with their dirty money, now, though it doesn’t exactly make up for the things that their ancestors did. Margaery doesn’t feel bad spending large portions of it and attending an extravagant party at her grandmother’s mansion with her girlfriend and family, though.

“You’re going to have a fabulous time,” Margaery assures her, and Sansa smiles.

“I know that I will,” she says.

“I love your brothers,” she says, “and your grandmother only terrifies me occasionally.” And they talk long into the night until they both finally fall asleep, Sansa’s head on her stomach and Marg’s arm wrapped around her waist.  


	5. December 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ice skating and family photos

“We haven’t got much time left,” Sansa sighs that morning into her cup of coffee. She takes a bite of a cookie, because no matter what her mother says, a few cookies and a  cup of coffee make a balanced breakfast. 

“There’s so much I wanted to show you,” she laments. Margaery smiles at her, a devious, flirty little smile and Sansa knows that she will either love or loathe the next few words to come out of her girlfriend’s mouth.

“There’s always next time,” she says with a flirty lilt to her tone, and Sansa feels her heart do an ecstatic little sommersault in her chest; Margaery is confident that they will stay together long enough for that to happen.

“Yes,” Sansa says, trying to take a sip of coffee in feigned nonchalance, “I suppose there is.” They have a few moments of comfortable silence before Sansa realizes what she actually wishes to do today, before they have to take photos, of course. That will suck up at least an hour of their day. Sansa doesn't mind much, though, because it's a tradition. And it would be sad and lonely not to have a Stark family photo for any given year. 

“We’re going ice skating,” Sansa declares. Margaery side-eyes her.

“Won’t that be cold?” she asks.

“Yes,” Sansa says, because she rarely lies and Marg isn’t stupid, “but it’s _so_ much fun. I think that you’ll like it.” She can see her girlfriend mulling it over in her mind, but she makes her decision fairly quickly.

“Alright,” she says, and Sansa smiles widely at her. Margaery’s face lightens at that, and Sansa finds herself anxious to put on the proper clothing and take her girlfriend out skating.

* * *

 

 

Margaery is of the opinion that it should not be so damn cold outside when the sun is shining brightly. She’s also of the opinion that ice is for avoiding, not skating on. Sansa laughs at her, which is becoming a more frequent occurrence than she’d really like it be, and she grabs her hand.

“You can do this,” she says with a smile as Marg grabs her hand, and Margaery knows that she can (she can do anything) but she’d prefer not to have to learn in front of her girlfriend. She wants Sansa to think that she’s naturally great at everything. But she grasps Sansa’s hand firmer as she gets a grip of how to not fall to her death atop the ice, and Sansa’s smiling at her with such profound fondness that Margaery doesn’t find herself caring that she knows that she isn’t perfect.

Her butt is still frozen solid from falling so many times on the hard ice. She finally learns how to move without eating shit, and then Sansa skates literal circles around her, laughing all the while.

* * *

 

 

Sansa shoves the soft sweater over her head and hopes that she hasn’t completely messed up her hair. Margaery, of course, continues to look like a goddess after shoving the surely static-ridden fabric over her hair.

* * *

 

 

After nearly an hour of failed shots, Rickon’s groans, and tedious smiling, they finally have two pictures that are reasonably good of the entire group. Her Uncle Brandon lets out the loudest, most exaggerated sigh out of the bunch. He even beats Rickon, which is impressive. Rickon has taken the title of loudest sigher home as long as he has been old enough to sigh instead of scream his lungs out.

* * *

 

 

Sansa starts another cheesy Christmas flick, to the chagrin of Arya and Bran.

“We’re heading back for Oxford tomorrow,” Sansa says.

“Sansa,” Arya groans, “That doesn’t mean we have to watch another stupid Christmas movie. I don’t want to watch a movie where Christmas is saved by the US Postal Service.” Bran nods, and Sansa can almost feel the built-up teenaged disagreeableness. Sana hopes that she wasn’t that bad at that age.

“It is Christmas, and we are going to watch Miracle on 34th Street,” she says slowly as she slides the dvd into the player.

“And you’re going to like it,” Arya says in her best “mother being stern” impression, and all the kids (minus Sansa) and Uncle Brandon burst into a fit of laughter.

“I heard that,” Sansa calls back, and her mother just glares at Arya. Arya does not look repentant. The trailers start a few moments after that, and Sansa rushes to her spot on the love seat with Margaery, and curls up under the blankets.

Her Aunt Lyanna stands up with a roll of the eyes and says, loudly, “We can’t watch a movie with the lights on.” She grabs the light switch and winks at Sansa as she turns off the lights. Sansa blushes, and she’s not sure whether she should be grateful to or angry with her aunt.


	6. December 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goodbyes aren't easy to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this has been a ride!! Haha, it might not have actually been that long, but it's the third longest fic that I've ever written, and I'm pretty proud of it. (Even though this particular chapter is hella short) I hope that you guys enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

They wake up that morning, Sansa’s head on Margaery’s stomach, the scent of home and her girlfriend filling her nostrils. She doesn’t want to have to leave. But she has to work tomorrow and she promised Margaery that they'd go to the big New Year's Eve party at Highgarden, so she doesn't really have much choice. She has to get up and leave Winterfell, even if she just wants to curl back into bed with her girlfriend.

* * *

 

 

They all eat lunch at Applebee’s, which Margaery insists is the whitest restaurant to ever exist, but it’s also one of the only semi-fancy restaurants in the entire town, so Sansa doesn’t care.

* * *

 

 

They come back home only to load their bags into the car and say their goodbyes. Which, because of a strange tradition they were never able to end when they were kids, are always done outside, even in the two feet of snow and the biting cold. 

They say their goodbyes with a lot big hugs, and even Marg gets in on the action. Arya in particular, much to Sansa’s surprise, seems to have taken a liking to her girlfriend. Somehow all the big hugs become one gigantic, group hug in the middle of the sidewalk, and Ned has to break it before they start blocking traffic. 

 

"Are you sure that you have to leave?" Arya asks, in a surprising display of sincerity and affection.

"I'm sorry," Margaery says, in an almost equally surprising display of sincerity and affection, "but we promised my family that we would spend New Year's Eve with them. And Sansa and I need to get back to work."

"Priorities," Arya mutters, and Sansa laughs.

"Don't worry," she says, "we'll be back in a few months."

"I wasn't talking about you," Arya lies badly, "I was talking about Margaery." Sansa rolls her eyes while her girlfriend sports an award-winning grin. 

"Alright, Arya," she says, "I promise I won't let Sansa come without me." Arya grins and gives them one last, collective hug as Sansa and Marg make their way through the light snowfall to the car.  

* * *

 

 

Sansa starts her car, and puts her hands on the steering wheel. Then, after taking one last look at the house she grew up in, she starts to drive.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Margaery can't sing and I will take this head-canon to the grave.


End file.
